Tea?
by ifinallylearnthowtolie
Summary: Holmes and Watson are exhausted after a case, and settle down to do one of the mundane activites they both enjoy. A little bit of slashy fluff. Rated for a couple of swears.


**_A/N: _This is the most random oneshot I have ever written, and I apologise for how mundane and crap it is.**

**For the record, I own nothing and make no profits.**

**Please review and let me know what you think?**

* * *

The rain was falling, heavily, it seemed outside that cab. Watson settled back into the squishy leather of the seat and regarded the back of the drivers head. Nothing particularly interesting there.

Next to him, Holmes sat perfectly still with his fingers steepled under his chin, musing the case that he had just solved. Had he not been forced to eat something by his companion, he might have been pale enough to actually have been considered to be a statue.

"I'll never trust a milkman again," Watson commented lightly. Holmes turned to him, an eyebrow arched.

"That's a highly illogical conclusion," he drawled, "You might as well disregard any person of any profession that we've encountered."

"Well I definitely don't trust the Police. Not after seeing Anderson throw up on that corpse," Watson retorted cheerfully. Holmes' lips twitched.

"And Sally tried to walk off with the ring," he added.

"Did she?"

"Do you not observe anything, John?" Holmes asked. Watson nudged him playfully, and Holmes smiled.

"Do you ever not observe everything?" Watson asked. Holmes considered for a moment.

"When I sleep," he suggested. Watson shook his head.

"You deduce in your sleep. I've heard you," he replied, clearly amused by Holmes' surprise.

"I do?"

"You solved half of the Truman case between snoring," Watson nodded. Holmes' eyes narrowed.

"I do not snore," he protested. Sensing a weakness, Watson grinned.

"You do. Loud enough to wake me up sometimes," he lied.

"Liar," Holmes accused, though a sly smile was tugging at his lips.

"Me? Lying? Never!" Watson replied sarcastically. Holmes elbowed him, grinning. "Oit!" Watson protested.

"What?" Holmes asked.

"You, Sherlock, are an utter bastard," Watson chuckled.

"The same to you," Holmes smirked.

* * *

Eventually, and to the relief of the cabbie, they pulled up at the end of Baker Street and hopped out of the cab. Sherlock paid, and the two of them stood for a moment smirking at each other. Then, noticing the buckets of icy rain soaking them to the core, they ran down the road and under the cover of the entrance to 221. Sherlock opened the door and once inside they shed coats and waterlogged shoes and stood, dripping, in the hallway.

"Well go on then, I know you want to," Watson sighed. Holmes gave him a knowing smile and moved to lean against the wall despite leaving sopping footprints on the slightly dusty wooden floor.

"His wife was the one having the affair. That's why he didn't like doing late night jobs like us- he was worried that his wife was seeing this other man while he was out. There's a young child involved, so he doesn't want confrontation," Holmes explained quickly, the evidence for his deductions flitting through his head as he spoke.

"Is that it?"

"He was dull."

"I guess we do have to get a boring cabbie every once in a while, eh?" Watson shrugged, making his way upstairs, "Tea?"

* * *

Holmes had settled down after changing into some pajamas- John was the only person to have seen him in them over the age of fifteen- and after insisting that John do the same. John had made tea, and Holmes had turned on the television. It seemed, John decided, that Holmes liked to wind down from a case by experiencing 'mundane' activities. He tended to try out the activities that John enjoyed; television and tea seemed to be his favourite by far. It tended to help him relax before the exhaustion from the strain he put on his body during cases kicked in.

"What's on?" John asked, settling himself next to Holmes on the sofa.

"QI," Sherlock replied.

"Ah, lovely," John grinned. They sat, simply watching the television for a while, until John noticed that Sherlock had stopped fidgeting.

Upon observation, John found Sherlock dozing, having curled up- while John was engrossed in one of Stephen Fry's complex explanations- into the corner of the sofa. He'd even managed to tangle himself up in the blanket that had been conveniently draped over the back of the sofa by Mrs Hudson a few hours earlier.

"Bless," John chuckled under his breath, watching as the tangled up, pointy limbed mess that was Sherlock rose and fell gently as he slept. After a few moments of watching affectionately, John felt a little guilty at the rather uncomfortable position that the detective was in and sighed, reaching out and gently tapping what appeared to be Sherlock's knee.

"Time for bed, mate," he stated gently. Sherlock grumbled in return and yawned.

"I'll sleep here. Too far to... bedroom," Sherlock muttered, his voice trailing out. John chuckled.

"Alright, well I suppose I'd better head up, then," he replied, groaning as he shifted to the edge of the sofa, willing himself to stand, but knowing that he was far too comfy and tired.

"But you're warm," Sherlock protested, grabbing at John's arm and pulling him back. John didn't put up a fight.

* * *

Sherlock woke up the next morning engulfed in the smell of John. Before opening his eyes, he realised that the warm, soft surface that his head was resting on was in fact breathing.

"John?" he asked. John blinked dopily a couple of times, and then opened his eyes properly.

"'Morning," he groaned, taking in the fact that he and Sherlock were laid across the sofa and that Sherlock was spread across the right half of his body. Sherlock's head was resting comfortably on John's chest, his curls just tickling John's chin. Neither man moved, both waiting for the other to react first.

"Well this is-"

"Tea?" Watson interrupted, "However much I enjoy you crushing my ribs, Sherlock, I really could do with a cuppa."

Sherlock rolled to the side so that John could sit up and stretch, and then watched as Watson rose- a little unsteadily- to his feet and headed for the kitchen.

"John?"

"Yes?" John asked, turning with the mugs already in his hands.

"Milk, two sugars?" he asked.

"As usual," John smiled gently.

"Oh, and John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Good morning," Sherlock smiled.

"Good morning to you too," John replied, a little bemused. Sherlock stretched and rolled back to look up at the ceiling. He liked to look at the stain on it- it'd been fading for some months now at an extremely boringly slow rate.

"Do you think Mycroft will start to assume-"

"Mycroft already assumes-"

"Mycroft is an idiot," Sherlock interrupted. John raised an eyebrow, but turned to the kettle.

"If he's an idiot, how comes you can't find his cameras?" John asked.

"Maybe I don't want to," Sherlock shrugged. John paused.

"You know where they are, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And you didn't think to tell me?" John frowned.

"I didn't think it mattered," Sherlock shrugged.

"I've been showering with pants on!" John retorted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing- smirking to himself. John looked up. "Oh you utter bastard!" he cried, forgetting the tea and throwing the oven gloves at Sherlock's head. Sherlock laughed, genuinely and loud, and rolled to his feet.

"Throwing things at my head won't make up for your uncomfortable showers," he smirked. John glared for a moment, before walking calmly across the room. Sherlock watched him cautiously; muscles coiled and ready to run.

* * *

But John was too quick, and Sherlock suddenly found himself air bound and winded by John's shoulder before he landed with a thump- and John's entire body weight landing on him- on the sofa. Sherlock huffed and pushed at John, who chuckled and pressed his weight down. The wrestled for a moment, John receiving an elbow to the ribs that he was sure would bruise.

John was very suddenly aware, then, of Sherlock's lips on his. He froze, in utter shock, as Sherlock did too. They looked at each other for a moment.

Then John kissed back, utterly unprepared to do so, and ended up toppling and falling off of the sofa.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes?" John chuckled.

"Can I have my tea now?" Sherlock smirked. John, back on his feet, leant down until his lips were just under Sherlock's ear and murmured,

"No."

* * *

**_A/N: _I apologise for my attempt at basic symbolism... It didn't quite work.**

**I also apologise for the lack of plot and poor ending.**


End file.
